


My Boy Builds Coffins

by ollipop



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: AU, Crack, D/s implied, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Kyril Island, M/M, Political Marriage, Politics, Salic descent, Time Period: Reign of Ezar Vorbarra, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollipop/pseuds/ollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aral Vorkosigan: wicked stepfather?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude: The Emperor that Never Was

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/gifts).



> This prompt did, in fact, make me say, “Help, bears just ate me, I can’t even!” and then I fell in love with it. Thanks, Lanna!
> 
> Anything that makes sense about this story is probably thanks to Avanti_90 and raspberryhunter for their keen beta reading skills and sharp eyes for canonical detail. Thank you both!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In the seventh year of the reign of Ezar Vorbarra._

Ezar remembered the first moment he looked at Aral and thought, _you look just like your father,_ and then thought, _oh._ Since then, barely a day had passed without him noticing the cords of Aral’s neck, the coiled tension in his shoulders, the nervous tapping of his broad, powerful hands. (How did the man manage to get his hands so callused on a jumpship?) The boy was a delight to watch, all muscle and bone, though Ezar thought himself too much of an old man to think about actually touching Piotr’s boy.

Ezar had been watching Aral longer than that, truth be told; he'd seen a stammering ten-year-old boy fight a civil war, then become a killer, and then go pale at his introduction at the Council of Counts. So he’d really been under Ezar’s attention for more than a decade, while managing to resist easy classification. Just when you thought he was a damned coward and a fool, he’d stare down a fleet Admiral and have half the general staff eating out of his hand. Just when you thought he was a proper Vor, you’d find him cavorting around drunk on Ges Vorrutyer’s leash. 

It wasn’t proper, certainly—Aral’s behavior or Ezar’s fascination with him. Aral was more than young enough to be his son. Ezar considered the possibility of anyone looking at young Serg in that way and felt slightly ill. Serg was so delicate, so brittle. Aral was unshakeable, even with his back against the wall and strung out on maple mead. He was a man of his father’s generation, born three decades late. 

If Yuri’s madness had bloomed ten years later, Aral could have stepped in and prevented Ezar’s banner being raised in what Ezar was increasingly coming to believe was a mistake, an overextension of the Vorbarra blood line. With Olivia’s blood and Piotr’s strategic wit, he might have been able to rule an Empire. Then again, he had also shown that he couldn’t so much as control his own young wife.

Ezar watched the Emperor-that-never-was, formulating and discarding plan after plan.


	2. Salic Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In the tenth year of the reign of Ezar Vorbarra._

The closed Council session had gone on for the better part of five hours. It was one debate after another; as part of the ongoing unification project, each Count (or deputy) was given as much of the floor as necessary to wind him up and then wear him down. In public, the Emperor and the inner circle would each affirm that closed sessions allowed Counts to speak their mind and build the trust necessary for honest public debate. In private, they would all agree with one another that it’s pretty much a waste of time.

Ezar waited for the floor to clear before raising his eyebrow at Piotr, signaling him to circle back. Most Counts acknowledged that Ezar and Piotr would dissect the subtext of the Council debates for useful strategy, but few Counts were foolish enough (or alert enough) to remark on the frequency of Piotr’s private audiences. No one could get any information on what else might happen when the door closed on these meetings, and both Piotr and Ezar worked to keep it that way.

“Good work on that Vordarian boy,” murmured Ezar after they were settled into the inner study. Ezar fell back into a couch, then primly gestured for Piotr to sit in a wingback chair at a decorous distance. Piotr bristled inwardly; he knew how to pick his own seat, and keep his hands to himself besides.

Piotr said, “Vordarian? It’s a bandage, nothing more. He’ll be back in five years, wanting more power.” 

Piotr always was the better gauge of a man’s loyalty, which is why Ezar kept him. There was also that issue of Salic descent, whereby Piotr had married a Princess and fathered sons whose claim to the throne would rival Ezar’s. Ezar had ducked the issue during Mad Yuri’s war because the sole surviving son had been so young, but now that Aral had reached his majority Ezar could neither publicly acknowledge nor deny Aral’s claim. It was a bomb that would eventually go off, even if it happened thirty years from now, but while in Piotr’s hands, the issue seemed safe. Piotr had a knack for carrying shards of glass and somehow emerging with his treasure unbroken and his hands uncut.

“It’s a pity I don’t have any daughters that I could parade in front of him,” said Ezar. “I think the hint of a betrothal could keep him happy for years.”

“And he would only become bitter when the betrothal ultimately failed to appear,” replied Piotr. “No. Any daughter of yours, crossed with a competing line of descent, would produce heirs that would believe themselves worthy of the camp stool. It’s not worth having any.”

“By that logic, I should be married to a daughter of yours.” Ezar turned a fond smile to Piotr. _My friend,_ his expression seemed to say. _You’re the one I can trust. Not like them._

Piotr’s smile turned grim—he wasn’t taking the bait, this year. “Had my daughter lived, you could very well have married her, and perhaps claimed the Imperium by that door instead of by Yuri’s sister.” He turned to Ezar, half-mocking. “Or you could always marry me.” 

Ezar turned cold and said nothing for a long minute. Piotr was managing to break their rule, yet again; whatever went on between the two of them, they couldn’t just discuss it. That would be for normal people. Or for women. 

“I’ve heard that suggested.” Ezar looked at him again, grinning, calculating. “But I can’t marry you. You’re my age, and too damn smart.” 

Piotr laughed humorlessly. “Oh, it’s not that I’m a man. It’s that I’m old?”

“I’ll marry anyone I please—marrying a man would simplify the question of succession considerably. But I don’t think I’ll marry you, regardless.” 

Piotr sighed and crossed his arms once more. Trust Ezar, to drive home a point.

“Perhaps you should marry Vordarian’s sister,” Piotr said, flailing slightly. 

“Marriage to Vordarian’s sister would be a disaster,” said Ezar. “There’s a reason we don’t want them on the throne.” 

Piotr was still watching him with his guard up. “The point of a marriage is to have children. To produce heirs.” 

“And I have an heir,” replied Ezar. “I’m just looking at options for a political alliance, since you raised the question. Though I’ll grant you, it’s a card I can only play once more.”

“Once or twice more,” Piotr agreed blackly. They reviewed the Council debate briefly but Piotr’s heart wasn’t in it. Regardless, he was deeply unsettled by Ezar’s comments. Marriage was political, yes, but Piotr couldn’t remember anyone plotting it as baldly as Ezar had just done. 

+++

A Baba arrived at Vorkosigan House the following week, with a formal invitation of marriage. Piotr’s Armsman came to the gate house and reminded her curtly that this House held no daughters; she waited calmly for him to return to the house before pealing the bell at the gate once more. This time, she asked directly for Lord Vorkosigan, and was told (quite accurately) that he was indisposed. True enough; the man hadn't been sober for weeks. 

On the third try, she jammed her walking stick into the door frame and told the guard, “I arrive with a message for Count Vorkosigan, and will attend him here for as long as necessary.” This earned her a place to stand in the Guard House—a mercy, as it had been raining for days—and the Armsman reluctantly sought out his liege at the breakfast table. 

“There’s a… woman… at the gate to see you, my lord.” 

Piotr raised one eyebrow. “Surely you can dispatch her?”

“I believe you’d better do it, my lord.”

Simm refused to say more, and Piotr grumbled all the way out the door and down the walk. 

The Baba explained that she wished to do business with the eldest child of the house. Piotr told her that they had no need of a Baba’s services and that when his son wished to go courting, he could do so on his own two feet. The Baba gave him a delicate snort, and Piotr’s estimation of her went up fractionally. At least she knew who she was dealing with. 

Aral had been on personal leave since the death of his wife almost eight months ago. In his first month as a widower, Aral explained plausibly that the drink was a necessary stage in his grief. Four months out, he had stopped apologizing and simply shrugged when anyone questioned his sobriety. At the seven month mark, Piotr was making plans to cart the boy to Vorkosigan Surleau to dry him out, and to leave him there until he was sober enough to walk back to the capital. It wasn’t as if the man could ride a horse.

“I don’t wish to invite him courting, my lord Count,” she clarified, “but quite the opposite. He is being courted.” 

“What kind of frill hires a Baba in search of a husband? However rich she may be, she surely makes up for it in lack of breeding. We have no interest in her.” Piotr stepped back in genuine disgust. “Leave my house.” 

“I have been sent at the wishes of the Emperor, my lord Count.”

Piotr’s eyes narrowed and his throat went dry. “The Emperor wishes my son to marry?”

“He does, my Lord.”

Piotr closed his eyes; his mouth twitched slightly as he swallowed his grimace. “Well,” grumbled Piotr, “you’ll have to explain it to Aral yourself. If you can keep him conscious.”

+++

Aral and Piotr fetched up at the Residence in an inner chamber with marble-topped tables and pale blue walls. Every thirty or forty minutes, an Armsman entered and looked Aral over critically. When he was deemed sober enough for an Imperial audience, the Armsman called them to attention and announced his liege. 

“Sire,” Piotr said neutrally as Ezar swept into the room. The Emperor was dressed in a gaudy red robe with a blue piping along the shoulders—reminiscent of formal military uniform, without the gravitas. 

“Ah, good. You received my message.” Ezar’s eyes were glittering, almost manic. He appeared to be in a hurry for another appointment, unlike his last meeting with Piotr. 

Piotr stood as close as possible to the door. “We received your summons, sire. Your message remains unclear.”

Ezar turned to face Aral. “I’m actually here to discuss your upcoming marriage, Lord Vorkosigan.” 

“Sire,” Aral said worriedly. “I don’t need to be married.” 

“Well, _I_ need to be married. You’re going to help with that.”

Both Piotr and Aral looked a little stunned. Ezar ran quickly through his plan: the need for a political marriage, a Vorkosigan marriage being ideal, and while there was an unfortunate lack of Vorkosigan daughters, there was a son handy. When Ezar explained that Aral would be free to father a child on his own time to be the Vorkosigan heir, Aral’s mouth dropped open. When Ezar turned to Piotr for suggestions on a suitable woman, Piotr’s eyes went even wider. (”I’ll think on it,” he said stiffly.) 

The Council of Counts is voting tomorrow morning,” Ezar announced. “They have been made aware that my choice is final and they will offer no dissent. Piotr, please arrive an hour early; the news will be leaked at that time and you’ll want to be on hand to receive congratulations, as well as reassuring any reluctant voters of your full support.” He smiled archly at Piotr. 

Piotr bit back a growl. “Yes, Sire.” 

After the door closed behind Ezar, Piotr wheeled to face Aral. “Well?” he demanded.

“Well, what?” Aral still looked dazed. “He wants me to marry him. He’s the Emperor. I couldn't very easily refuse the assignment.”

Piotr paced back and forth like a cat. “Marriage isn't an assignment. It doesn't make any sense.” 

Aral grew even quieter, impossibly still. “No, it makes sense.” 

“It’s ridiculous. You’re no wife. You won’t bear him more children. It makes Serg a sitting target. It leaves the Vorkosigan line without a legitimate heir. He’s not even attracted to you.” Piotr’s eyes narrow at the last, his voice rising minutely. _He’s not, right?_ Aral’s eyes went unfocused and he began to sway slightly.

Aral’s voice was methodical, detached, as he reasoned through Ezar’s strategy. “He doesn’t want any other heirs. It will remove the possibility, later, that any faction against Serg could seduce a viable candidate for the throne.” Aral continues to wobble and Piotr grips his shoulder. “The Emperor’s marriage should form, or cement, an alliance. Creating an alliance with anyone else would alienate you. Besides, this invalidates the issue of Salic descent, both in theory and in practice. I could always beget a child, by someone—” Piotr snorted—”and he would be Lord Vorkosigan, never the Emperor. It’s flawless, really.”

Aral finally lost his feet and sat down heavily on the green divan. After a beat, Piotr collapsed next to him. 

“Besides,” Aral continued, “you heard him say his choice was final. Would you be foolish enough to refuse an Emperor who had his mind made up?”


	3. The Glass Slipper

The wedding was over in six weeks, the blink of an eye by Imperial standards. The Council of Counts provided the least enthusiastic approval they could muster; Piotr poured most of the Imperial allotment into long-term District improvements rather than local festivals; and Ezar ruthlessly quashed most of the remaining fanfare with the excuse that his intended spouse was still in his year of mourning. If only the gentleman in question would cooperate by remaining sedately at home, instead of carousing until all hours with Ges Vorrutyer.

“Can’t wait for the wedding, can you?” smirked Aral after Ezar stormed in on the middle of a suit fitting to dress him down. Aral’s eyes were red-rimmed, his breath fermented, and a bruise was just blossoming over his left cheek. Ezar brushed aside the open tunic and saw a line of red welts running across his torso. Aral rolled his eyes and tugged the fabric out of Ezar’s hand, back over his midsection.

Ezar shot a look at his Armsmen, who quietly herded the tailor and his assistants out the door.

When Ezar turned back to Aral he was seething. “Take off your clothes.”

Aral quickly and quietly removed the half-finished tunic and trousers. He had thumbs hooked into his underpants when Ezar stopped him with a curt, “You can leave those.” Only then did Aral look up and glare, while Ezar circled him at a careful arm’s length. Aral’s shoulders were clean, but another line of welts ran from hip to knee, carefully cross-hatched around the outside of Aral’s left thigh.

“He’s not good for you, Aral.”

Aral’s head was tipped down, but he stared up through his lashes at Ezar, still trying to pull off the bravado. “You mean Ges? These weren’t from him. Actually, I don’t remember who those are from. I believe they were congratulatory strikes, in your honor.” 

“It’s all from Ges, and none of it is good for you. I expect that you’ll give it up, after the ceremony.” 

Aral’s eyes widened. “I thought this was to be a simple political marriage. _Sire._ ”

“You can do whatever you wish in your free time, and it is a political marriage. But stay away from Ges. He’s bad politics.” At that, Ezar spun on his heel and stalked out of the room. 

+++

The night of the wedding, Ezar and a carefully-drunk Aral ascended to the Emperor’s Suite. A second bedroom had been made up for the new Consort, though it had been made publicly known that there would be little consorting. The true intimacy was that Aral would be permitted in the Emperor’s quarters alone, at any time of day or night. Since Ezar had taken the throne, no one but Piotr had been allowed that privilege.

Ezar led Aral into the second bedroom and pointed to the shower. “Bathe,” he ordered, and while Aral did so he inspected the room from top to bottom. Aral emerged a few moments later looking well-scrubbed and ten years older than before. Without the concealer on his face, the fading bruise gave him a sickly look; without the epaulets of his jacket, his shoulders were rounded and anxious. Dressed in thin ship knits, he looked more like a tired soldier than either an heir or a consort. 

Ezar approached Aral, lifted his vest, and carefully examined the welts on Aral’s midsection. He pressed his fingers to one, clinically, and felt Aral gasp slightly and lean into his touch. Ezar straightened. Aral’s head was bowed, long lashes hiding his eyes. Ezar leaned in and gently pressed a kiss to the top of Aral’s forehead, and then stepped back.

Aral looked up, frightened and pleading. 

“When you’re sober, perhaps.” Ezar traced one hand down Aral’s shoulder. “Meantimes, get your rest. You have quite a week ahead of you.”


	4. My Boy Builds Coffins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In the twelfth year of the reign of Ezar Vorbarra._

Living in the Imperial Residence meant that there was a bottle of Vorkosigan red open at all times in any room containing Aral, along with a servant to wield it. As a result, his glass had been half-full for the last eighteen months. Ezar wanted him to worry about nothing; Ezar also didn’t particularly want him to think. 

Aral had been halfheartedly reviewing the minutes of the most recent Council session when he felt a hand press into his shoulder. His head rolled up lazily to find Ezar watching appraisingly.

“Learning anything new?” his husband said.

“Hardly.” Aral closed the binder with a mix of guilt and relief; he had been poring over notes for the last two hours. Aral was plagued by an unsettling feeling that there were things going on that he needed to know and couldn't possibly have learned while sitting in front of a fireplace with a blanket on his lap and red wine staining his lips. He couldn't recall what he might have been searching for, but since Grishnov had been reluctant to provide him with the files, they must be worth reading.

“No sense spending any more time on it. Come to bed?” 

The weight of his hand on Aral’s shoulder was no more stern nor gentle than his own would be. Aral gazes down at it, utterly accustomed; the jewel-crusted ring and the knobby fingers were as familiar to him as his own hands. There was no longer a thrill of fear at being touched by the Emperor, only the routine of touching Ezar. Somehow, impossibly, this had become more normal than his first marriage was. Ezar has known Aral since his birth, knew his brother and sisters by name, knows his father. (Aral’s mind skittered away from how well Piotr and Ezar knew each other.) Neither of them pretend to be someone else. Aral was certain that it was the only thing Ezar could see in him. 

+++

“Ezar, what are you on about?” Aral was still blissed-out and tipsy from a well-chaperoned evening on the town, and seemed genuinely confused when Ezar told him they needed to change the line of succession.

“Serg can’t be Emperor.” Ezar repeated in a flat voice. He was huddled—almost crouched—over an ImpSec report in the inner study, where Aral had sought him out.

“Of course he can’t, the boy’s nineteen. What were you like, at that age?” Aral grinned at the thought of an adolescent Ezar. “Were you sane, content? Carefree, perhaps?” 

“I was fighting Cetagandans at nineteen. You’d survived a civil war.” Ezar had turned toward Aral, but his gaze was directed past the younger man.

Aral dropped to his knees next to Ezar’s desk chair, into Ezar’s line of sight. He was visibly attempting to sober up and watching Ezar carefully. “We’re in a different age, now. Thanks to you.”

“And Serg is—” Ezar stopped, gestured hopelessly at the reports. “Serg is not improving. Quite the opposite, in fact.” 

Aral rested a hand on Ezar’s knee and said nothing. 

Ezar’s eyes were hooded like a snake as he considered Aral for his strategy. “You could try spending some time with him. You’re here for two months ground leave, and We could extend that. You, perhaps, could keep him occupied.”

Aral stared back at Ezar, aghast.

“Not like that, stupid boy. But you’re closer to his age. Talk with him, steer him away from Ges. Ges won’t take him in hand, won’t tell him he’s gone too far.” Ezar grabbed Aral’s hand and gripped it tightly. In almost ten years of marriage, Aral had never seen Ezar’s iron calm slip, and wondered if this was the moment it would happen. 

Aral’s eyes flashed. “Am I the nanny now? Do you expect me to babysit, or are you just handing me off to Serg?” 

Ezar leaned back in his chair and dropped Aral’s hand. A note of impatience crept into his voice. “Pay attention. I’m merely asking you to support the Crown Prince. I expect that you will obey his reasonable requests. And call out his unreasonable requests.”

Aral sat back on his heels. “I didn’t realize that was a special directive; isn't that what you would expect of any subject? He’s not drawn to me, anyway.” 

Ezar said, “Just make him interested in you, one way or another. You can be charming. Didn’t you do that for me, years ago? When you still cared for me?” 

“What do my feelings for you have to do with Serg? Be reasonable, Ezar. He’s your son, and he’s the Crown Prince. If there’s anything I could do that I’m not already doing, than I have failed him twice over. And I wouldn’t hang my commander out to dry, even a bad one.” Aral bit off that last statement, hoping that Ezar would be too deep in his own thoughts to hear it. 

“True…” Ezar replied, “but we could change the line of succession.”

Aral snorted. “Over his dead body.”

“Yes, that’s one way we can change it.” Ezar looked absolutely drained. 

Aral kept silent for a long minute. His heart raced and he felt choked for air, like those moments when he’d moved too slowly in a sparring match and Bothari had caught him by the throat. In the practice ring, he would always prefer to black out rather than embarrassing both fighters by calling it off. But here, kneeling in front of Ezar, he desperately wished he had a way to tap out. 

“No,” he said finally. “No, I won’t do that.”

“You overstep yourself. Who are you loyal to, boy? Me or him?”

“Neither, sir. I am loyal to the Emperor. Which you both shall be, in turn.”

“Even Piotr couldn’t have made a ruler out of Serg. You, Aral, are no kingmaker, and you certainly couldn’t force him onto the camp stool from inside the Residence.”

The scorn in Ezar’s voice was a perverse comfort; it brought Aral back to more familiar territory. In response, he could let himself show his anger, inviting Ezar’s punishment. “I’m not leading a revolution! I’m just respecting the line of succession. _Someone_ in this household surely ought to.” 

Suddenly, Aral was hit with the full force of Ezar’s strategy. From inside, he had no room to turn, no lever with which to move the line of succession. He suddenly understood why he was there.

He’d known that their marriage had been more than a whim of Ezar’s, more than a finger in the faces of the Council, but he’d dared to think that it might have had something to do with him, not just his lineage.

“I won’t help you with this,” Aral repeated. “Send me away, if you must.”

Ezar was hunched back over his files again, just as he had been when Aral entered. “Do you defy me, then?” he asked carefully.

“I would not defy my husband. Neither would I defy my Emperor.” 

New orders arrived the next day, for immediate departure to Kyril Island. Aral left without bidding farewell either to Ezar or to his unit.


	5. Count Back From Ten

Aral had been gone from Kyril Island for almost sixteen years, and still couldn’t bear the idea of a winter parade. This one was particularly galling, under the review of both Emperor Ezar and Prince Serg. Parade drills seemed to be designed to provide maximum discomfort to space battalions, by those troops incompetent enough to remain stuck on Barrayar. Seeing Ezar, increasingly pale, next to his bloated and languid son was infuriating. Aral had only met the Princess Kareen twice, but she was on Serg’s right, holding a worried-looking toddler. Ges Vorrutyer hovered menacingly on her other side. 

After the parade, Aral was pulled aside by a stern gentleman in black and silver who asked him to attend the Emperor. The Armsman passed a stack of papers to Aral’s second in command, providing a brevet promotion and command of the group until further notice. As a result, Aral entered the Imperial study already seething; he couldn’t figure out whether he was being demoted yet again, or whether this was simply Ezar’s way of clearing Captain Vorkosigan’s schedule.

Ezar sat behind a tall oaken desk, and gestured for Aral to stand before him. “You met someone,” he said without preamble.

Aral frowned. “Negri told you that I had a meeting, Sire?”

“No, Aral,” Ezar corrected him. “Negri actually told me that you missed a shot in your attack, or possibly two shots, and ended up saddled with prisoners. Then you managed to go and fall in love with one of them—the woman, to boot. I don’t believe you’ve touched a woman in twenty years.” Ezar looked non-plussed. “Will you be needing some diagrams?”

“Probably not. I’ll be sure to let you know.” Aral was almost too tired to be sarcastic.

Ezar leaned forward over the desk, glaring at Aral. “Negri also told me that you’d asked for her hand in marriage. He didn’t tell me what she said.”

“Well, she didn’t say yes.” Aral sighed. He was exhausted from thinking of it, from trying to wedge scenarios involving her acceptance into what he knew about her current life. He kept coming up empty.

“That’s never a good sign.”

“Well, we can’t all command our future spouse’s agreement, can we?” Aral said tartly. Ezar turned a wolfish grin on him, and Aral smiled back in spite of himself. “I may have neglected to mention my prior marriage. Marriages.” 

“Ah, yes. How will you handle that?” Ezar eyed him shrewdly. 

Aral stared silently back at Ezar for a full minute. Then he looked away, fidgeted slightly with a jacket cuff. “Well, I can’t very well divide my loyalty. I thought I might ask you for an annulment. I wasn’t really thinking of it, quite frankly.”

“Really? You would argue that we were never married?” He’d managed to surprise Ezar; the old man’s eyebrows climbed, and suddenly the full weight of his stare landed on Aral.  
Aral hardly flinched. “It’s not as if I bore you any sons,” he said in a dry tone. “The political work has been done, I would say. Were you hoping for a reconciliation?”

Ezar gave him another slow smile, and looked Aral up and down possessively. Proudly, in fact. Despite himself, Aral felt his cheeks go hot. He was always out of his depth around Ezar; Aral could deal with being desired, or dominated, or ignored, but it was incredible to watch how quickly Ezar’s moods could change. He’s the Emperor, the lover, the angry father: all of those people at once, for Aral. 

But by the time Aral shifted his expectations and stepped forward, Ezar’s gaze was already gone. “The political work, unfortunately, is not quite done yet.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I have one more mission for you, husband.”

Aral waited, but Ezar didn’t say anything further. _How bad could it be?_ he thought to himself. Finally, he broke the silence. “Well,” he said cautiously, “we live to serve.” He thought he’d managed to keep the irony out of his voice, but Ezar still quirked an eyebrow at him in warning. 

“I need you to lead the Escobar invasion.” 

_Oh. That bad._

Aral huffed out a laugh. “Sorry, in that case you would need an admiral, not a captain. Or had you forgotten my rank again?”

“I haven’t forgotten your rank. I also haven’t forgotten our marriage, which is more than I might say for you.” Ezar’s gaze drifted past Aral, considering strategy. “Anyway, the rank can be arranged. The annulment could be arranged, too, though I must remind you that an insubordinate captain wouldn’t be able to get far from Negri’s watchful eye.”

Aral declined to mention young Lieutenant Illyan, standing outside the door; it wasn’t as if he got away from ImpSec much at all these days. He shifted to re-focus Ezar’s gaze on him. “So I lead the Escobar invasion, I get my rank back, and we go our separate ways?”

Ezar nodded. 

“No deal, husband. Escobar is a mistake, we’ve lost the element of surprise. We wouldn’t be able to hold the planet over a long occupation, nor do you want to divert resources from the new territory—Sergyar, was it?” Disgust dripped plainly from Aral’s tone. 

Ezar’s attention finally snapped back to Aral. “If I need your military advice, _Captain,_ I’ll request it.” 

“We’ll lose a mountain of soldiers. Unless that is your plan?”

“The War Party is crying for a strike plan, and I can’t very well let the threat of some casualties slow down the expansion of the Empire, now can I?” The War Party—led by Grishnov, Vorrutyer, the Crown Prince—had been pushing for the invasion of Escobar since the new planet had been discovered. 

Ezar had expected that Ges would eventually lead Serg past the point of caring about the Imperium or its work. Foolishly, he hadn’t expected that Serg’s penchant for violence would get translated into a military bloodlust. His aggressive streak had taken root in the sycophants surrounding him.

“Yes, we will lose men,” Ezar continued. “I’m asking, personally, that it be executed by you. I trust you. I love you.” Aral blinked. “And I know you’ll be as revolted by it as I am.” 

Aral turned from Ezar and stalked to the low buffet which held a brandy snifter and several glasses. He filled a tumbler and took a long drink. Then he hefted the glass again and threw it against the wall. 

Ezar didn’t flinch or cry out. He pressed a button on one edge of the desk and murmured a few commands into it. He turned to face Aral again and said tiredly, “Have a seat, would you?” But Aral was still stubbornly glaring out the window several minutes later when Negri entered, carrying his stack of files.


	6. The New Regent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _In the 31st year in the reign of Ezar Vorbarra. A drabble._

Aral knelt by the Imperial deathbed after the doctor departed.

Ezar’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I told you I wouldn’t make any more requests of you.” A long pause. “I’m sorry.”

Aral bowed his head to Ezar’s shoulder, drew a careful breath. “It’s an honor, right?” Aral replied. “I needed my honor mended anyway.” 

Aral gently slid his hands between Ezar’s one last time. Ezar pressed his palms together in response, then slipped one hand between Aral’s and laced their fingers together. They remained that way until Ezar drifted off to sleep again, and for quite a while thereafter.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to give all sorts of gratitude to Tel and collaborators for the Vorkosigan Saga Timeline Project, which provided invaluable timeline support and without which this story would have crashed and burned several times. 
> 
> Main title is from Florence + the Machine. Part 5 title is from Liz Phair's "Divorce Song". Why yes, I do have a playlist for this pairing now, why do you ask?


End file.
